


So Maybe I'm a Masochist

by Maeve_of_Winter



Series: Forgotten Paths [6]
Category: The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Male Friendship, Self-Destruction, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2402471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Uninvited Guest, Dan desperately tries to cling to any semblance of normality, and reaches a decision about his future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Maybe I'm a Masochist

**Author's Note:**

> This fic could be considered a very early prequel to my Married in Vegas storyline. This particular fic does not involve slash.

Juliana's engagement ring in hand, Dan strides toward the stables. The sun was bright just a minute ago, but now the shadows are lengthening; it's sunset.

A glare of light momentarily blinds him as he nears the stable entrance. Dan closes his eyes for several seconds to stave off the rays' intensity, never slowing his pace. When he opens them again, Trixie is standing before him, a vixen smile on her face.

“Hello, Dan.” There's an edge of mischief to the curve of her lips, and when he opens his mouth to reply, she throws herself up against him, her tongue pressing between his teeth. She tastes like cotton candy- sweet but empty as air. Suddenly, Dan is achingly, ravenously hungry, but all he has to sate himself is the hollow, sugary taste of Trixie's affection.

There's a sudden sting in his arm, and Dan realizes that Trixie is holding a bloodstained switchblade. She's sliced his arm, cutting deeply, leaving a long, vertical wound from wrist to elbow. It's one of the more effective ways to commit suicide, but most people make the mistake of cutting horizontally. That's not right; when you're slitting your wrists, Dan knows that it's down the stairs, not across the street.

He detaches himself from her, and Jim is there, ready to take his place. Jim shoves Trixie up against the stable wall, slamming his mouth against hers, his tongue moving aggressively. She moans obscenely into his lips, and Dan does not want to see them, but he can't look away. It's like watching a car wreck.

Jim pulls away from Trixie briefly, but keeps her cemented up against the stable wall as she writhes in place. He glances at Dan. “Want to join us?” He invites.

“No thanks,” Dan tells him. “I'm bleeding to death.”

With that, he staggers into the stables, leaving them at it. The world tilts around him as he moves, but finally he gets to Regan, who's waiting for him with that usual disapproving scowl.

“Help me,” Dan begs. Blood surges from his arm and pools on the ground around him.

Regan gives him a look of endless annoyance and disgust, before roughly grabbing Dan's arm, glancing at the wound unconcernedly.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Regans informs him, shrugging impatiently. He nods in another direction, off to Dan's side, and then looks pointedly at Dan. After that, he walks away, leaving Dan behind.

Dan whirls to find the object of Regan's gaze, and realizes he's staring into a mirror that has not always been there. In the mirror, his arm is not bleeding- but neither is it bleeding right now. What he mistook for blood is actually a tangle of red wires extending from the inside of his arm.

Confused, Dan looks into the mirror again, just in time to see his face split apart, revealing a web of wires and network of gears where blood and bone should be.

 

* * *

 

Abruptly flung from sleep, Dan Mangan jolts upright in bed, gasping for breath. At first, he thinks he might be sick to his stomach, but the nausea passes when he swings his legs over the side of his bed.

Images from his nightmare flash through his mind, and he rests his head in his hands. For a very odd and brief moment, there's a tightening sensation in his throat, as though he's suffocating, but in an instant that too, passes.

This is the first night in a while he's been able to sleep, no doubt thanks to the cocktail of sleeping pills he'd swallowed before bed. Without them, he would be up all night pacing, his mind whirring with what-ifs and would-could-should-haves, slowing being consumed by the anxiety and restlessness that's been lurking about him like shadow for the past few weeks.

The sun has not yet risen, but a glance at his watch tells Dan that it's early morning. He dresses quickly, grabs his music, and takes off on his run. He's careful to be quiet so that he doesn't wake Mart.

Usually, Dan prefers to run at night. Tearing through the preserve trails in the darkness clears his head; he likes to pretend that his problems and difficulties are ghosts chasing after him, but if he's fast enough, he'll be able to outrun and forget them. If he runs fast enough, he might be able to become someone else. Shed this skin and emerge a new person, someone different, someone better, and finally leave this cage that is his body. If he weren't himself, he could probably run faster than ever, maybe even fly.

Of course, if Dan weren't himself, he would have no reason to run: he would have nothing to run away from.

Now, his shoes pound the sand as the sky gradually lightens, and when he inhales, he can taste the tang of salt in the air. He's in Florida, at some seaside mansion with a private beach, with the Bob-Whites on yet another one of their vacations. They have an extended Labor Day recess this year due to severe maintenance issues at the high school building, so here they are.

Thank God summer is over, though. Dan likes the school year better, because he's busy, because he doesn't have too much time to think.

He doesn't want to be here, right now, not here with the Bob-Whites. Not when the bandages lacing around his arms are still so apparent, not when everyone does everything they can to dance around the reason why he has them. They think they're being tactful. He thinks they're cowards avoiding an uncomfortable truth: people suffer during life. Sometimes due to fate, sometimes due to other people. And suffering irreversibly changes the individual, regardless of the reason.

Of course, hell will freeze over before any of the Bob-Whites admit that.

(Christ, Jim would probably actively argue against it, knowing him. Jim can be so . . . Stepford-ish at times, determined to pretend life is as simple and wholesome as it is in nostalgic reminiscences of the 1950's.)

But Dan shouldn't blame the Bob-Whites for what happened to him. His captivity was pretty much his own fault. If he never became involved with Luke . . . if his parents didn't die . . . if he had turned down admittance to the Bob-Whites . . . if he and Luke returned to the city that night after he rescued Bobby and helped Trixie . . .

Dan feels guilty when he thinks about that, which is more often than is probably healthy, but he can't help but consider the possibility. Would it have been better to accept a life of violence rather than have a chance at happiness and but never being quite able to reach it? To be constantly be dragged back down by his problems just when he thought he'd escaped?

He would also be less of a burden on other people if he wasn't in Sleepyside. Elijah Maypenny doesn't seem to mind having him around the cabin, but Regan has always all but spelled it out for him that he would will Dan into nonexistence were he capable.

(Though he gets the feeling that it's more about Regan's personal hangups with family than an issue with Dan himself, which is marginally comforting.)

Maybe he should just accept that things aren't going to change. Trixie will always be reckless and never realize that her actions can hurt other people. Honey will never realize that boarding school, AKA three meals a day and a safe place to sleep, was hardly the worst fate she could have undergone. And Regan couldn't be impressed by him if Dan died on a cross to save humanity from their sins.

(And yet, Regan would give the Bob-Whites medals for breathing if he could.)

But if people can't change, what the hell does that say about him?

Regan was the one who insisted Dan join the Bob-Whites on their vacation. So that Dan would have an activity besides “moping around the game preserve.”

Right. As if Regan's reasons for wanting to send him away will ever be anything but “out of sight, out of mind.”

Irritated with his own determination to wallow in negativity, Dan picks up his pace, urging his body to reach its maximum speed. He hates himself when he's in these bouts of self-pity, which is maybe some twisted form of encouragement to keep at it.

When he arrives back at the house after about an hour of pushing his body to surpass its limits and trying to excavate his hopeless thoughts from his mind, Dan is no closer to finding any kind of peace. He's now both tired and angry, aggravated that a physical outlet does nothing to soothe the ire and anxiety simmering within him. Sinking down on the front steps, he concentrates on breathing evenly and slowing his racing pulse. Unconsciously, his jaw clenches. A sudden image springs to Dan's mind of grinding his teeth with such force that they shatter, turn to dust, and cascade down his throat.

The sun is just beginning to rise, threading a tapestry of daylight. He wishes he could be back at Elijah's cabin. The surrounding foliage there is like a shield, filtering the sunlight, blocking out the real world.

The door on the porch swings open. Mart.

“Good morning,” Mart says, maybe a touch hesitantly.

“Morning,” Dan returns dispassionately. There's nothing particularly “good” about it, not that he can see.

Mart joins him on the front steps. Dan doesn’t look at him, only stares out at the ocean. He's half-tempted to say something sharp and cutting to make Mart go away, to force him into retreat. That way, he won't have to see what an incredibly fucked up person Dan has become (or maybe, always has been).

In the end, though, he doesn't have the heart to reject his friend's companionship, and thus, he doesn't object to Mart's presence. Were he less stricken by the near past and less anxious about the near future, he likes to think he would be more appreciative of Mart's quiet attempt to comfort him.

“I'm glad you're here with us,” Mart tells him. “I would have worried about you if you had decided to stay in Sleepyside.”

“Regan thought I needed a change of scenery,” Dan says tonelessly.

“I don't think he was wrong,” Mart replies quietly.

Dan turns to look at Mart momentarily, but when he finds himself unable to meet his best friend's eyes, he returns his gaze to the beach before him. As the silence stretches between them, they can hear the waves crashing against the sand from down on the beach.

“I'm sorry,” Mart says finally. “About what happened to over this past summer.”

A choke hold suddenly seems to be closing around Dan's throat. He wishes Mart could be talking about the time the other Bob-Whites went on a road trip to Virginia and didn't bother to invite him, or how Dan constantly got stuck baby-sitting Bobby on his days off, even though it's supposed to be Trixie's job and she always receives her allowance regardless.

But Dan knows Mart is referring to The Glen Road Inn and What Happened There.

Words are already forming in Dan's mouth, and it's on the tip of his tongue to tell Mart that he doesn't want to talk about it- yet as he opens his mouth to speak, he's not sure if he's telling the truth or lying to spare himself pain.

This is what he wants, isn't it? Someone to ask after him, someone to express concern about his wellbeing? He loses nothing if he talks about what happened, if he admits what was done to him . . . right?

During his last significant interaction Regan, his uncle raised the possibility of Dan seeing a therapist in the aftermath of his captivity at the Glen Road Inn. Dan declined within seconds. He didn't know what he should say, didn't know if he could talk about it, didn't know if it would be acceptable to talk about it. When Dan replied in the negative, a look of relief crossed Regan's face, as though Dan's wish to bury his problems was proof Dan didn't truly have any problems after all.

The sheer relief on Regan's face- Dan can't stop seeing it, like it's forever burned into his mind.

Ludicrous as it was, hope surged through him at Regan's reaction- like he finally proved that he's not broken and therefore doesn't need to be replaced, made it clear that he's just as worthy of his uncle's regard as the BWGs.

Abruptly, Dan reaches a realization, just as the air grows too thin for him to breathe. If it's objectionable for him to discuss his generous supply of issues and traumas with a therapist, there's no way at all it's appropriate for him to burden his best friend with those same problems. Even as he's overwhelmed by the urgent need to speak of what happened to him, to make it known so he can let it out and let it go- he knows he shouldn't.

Can't?

He doesn't know which one it is, and a part of him is exhausted by how much it matters, how much he cares.

Half-finished thoughts buzz frantically in Dan's panicked brain as he searches desperately for a response that won't betray the truth, won't give away how upset and enraged and shocked the events have left him. All of the sudden, it is abundantly clear to him that his experiences have not only changed him, but bastardized and deadened him. He is now a shell of being, one that is constantly caught in indecision between action and avoidance. Never before has Dan been so completely trapped in his own identity.

“Don't apologize,” Dan eventually returns, the steadiness of his voice surprising himself. “You had no control over the situation.”

“Yeah, but you were only a couple of miles from us the whole time!” Mart exclaims in frustration. “All of those days we spent searching for you, wondering where you were, and the answer was staring us right in the face!”

Dan bites down on his tongue till there's a slight metallic taste in his mouth, his irritation spiking at the reminder that his own personal hell had been only miles from his home. The short distance makes the topic all the harder to ignore or confront.

Mart draws his own conclusions from Dan's lack of comment. “I'm sorry,” he says again, shame in his voice. “I don't mean to be insensitive as I'm coming across. I just- I wish-” his gaze slides down to the bandages on Dan's arms and his mouth clamps shut and reopens several times.

“I guess what I'm trying to say,” Mart finally manages, “is that if you need to talk to someone about what you went through, you can talk to me.”

The sincerity of Mart's words touch something cold inside of Dan, and familiar tumultuous desperation swells within him. He so badly wants to do something, say something, to make himself feel better. It doesn't matter if he has to put his fist through glass or stab safety pins into his face- anything just get rid of this constant, horrible dread and guilt gnawing away at him. He'll do whatever it takes, he'll even reveal the entire brutal truth about what went on at the Glen Road Inn.

No.

That's not it.

If Dan keeps quiet about this, everyone else will, too, and they'll eventually forget about it, because it's his pain to remember, not theirs.

(Besides, what happened on the third floor is unspeakable.)

It's an obvious solution; he doesn't know why it's taken him as long as it has to configure this idea. Discussing what went on at the Inn will make those events a reality, but if he can convince himself none of it ever went on at all- that will allow the memories to fade into obscurity. And after that, everything will be better. Then _he_ can be better.

Maybe Regan has a point: talking to a therapist might not be the best idea after all.

This way, his pain will be ignored, and then forgotten. It will only exist to everyone else as a faraway memory that briefly recurs every now and again but is quickly dismissed out of unwillingness to dredge up the past.

No one will know, no one will realize, and then they'll forget anything ever happened. All of this hurt and anger, everything that horrified and agonized him over those weeks, the guilt that's eating him now, will be replaced by happier memories and more comfortable truths.

Regan would be thrilled at Dan's conclusion.

Dan should be happy that his secrets will die rather than be immortalized as whispers and gossip, yet for whatever reason, he can't disregard a sting of bitterness in the midst of his relief.

Again, his feelings are discredited. Again, he has to accept that he can't allow his pain to be important, dismiss it rather than come to terms with it.

But he doesn't want to talk about. And he _can't_ talk about- he has no idea where to begin and where to end, what to downplay and what to censor. No matter what efforts he gave, he would never be able to describe how utterly wrecked he is over this, how he's been feeling terrible day in, day out, for weeks on end.

Maybe keeping quiet can help him improve himself, become a stronger person. After all, Dan has an opportunity to draw attention to himself, but he's choosing not to do so. He can learn to more humble, less presumptuous, less self-centered.

“Someday,” Dan finds himself promising Mart at long last. “I'll talk about it someday, but later rather than sooner.”

Mart nods and rests a hand on Dan's shoulder. Though he's grateful for his friend's attempts to console him, a strange, subdued sadness washes over Dan, a feeling nearly foreign after spending weeks alternatively battling burning anger and sickish despair. For whatever reason, his throat tightens again, and his eyes water, a sensation easily attributed to the sand.

They sit together and watch the sun ascend the sky, brilliant in its fire. A new day is surfacing, ending the night and exposing what previously lay in darkness.

Dan closes his eyes against the brightness and wonders how many more sunrises it will take before his suffering will be lost to time.

 


End file.
